


declan is cold; if he was sitting across from you on a train and he wasn't moving, you might think he was dead

by goodbyechunkylemonmilk



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Criminal Doings, Declan Lynch's Daddy Issues, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-03-29 20:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyechunkylemonmilk/pseuds/goodbyechunkylemonmilk
Summary: Gansey no longer has the musculature of someone fresh off a victorious crew season, but he looks just as good as Declan remembers. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt with pink flowers, unremarkable khakis, and what are, quite possibly, the same long-suffering boat shoes he had on the last time Declan saw him. His arm twitches like he's thinking of going in for a hug, and then a handshake, and finally he gives an awkward little wave. "I'm sorry for the trouble," he says, hovering just beyond the threshold, a bookbag slung over one shoulder. "Ronan can be—persistent."Declan doesn't say, "No shit," but only because he feels too off-balance to be snide. He goes instead with, "It's not a problem," and remembers without too much of a hitch to invite Gansey inside and show him to the guest room.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was theoretically a prompt fill but in practice has nothing in common with what i was asked to do. it's 90% done but i'm splitting it in two just to make myself feel less embarrassed about how badly it's spiraled out of my control

It makes  _perfect_ sense that Ronan would break his cellular embargo while Declan is up to his neck in a disconcertingly grave-like hole, focused on retrieving a dream artifact he hid back when he was living in a Georgetown freshman dorm. He rests his forehead on the handle of his shovel until he's sure his irritation won't be audible, wipes one hand on the sweatshirt he ordinarily wouldn't be caught dead wearing, and picks up. He and Ronan are on decent terms now, but Declan still hears his voice most often in the background of Matthew's butt-dials; a call is serious. "What's wrong?"

"Gansey's in DC," Ronan says, barely waiting for the question mark to clear Declan's lips. Something on his end crashes to the ground, and he groans, but lovingly. "His parents are still pissed at him for having the gall to die instead of attending some stupid party. He's miserable."

"So..." Declan can already feel a crick developing in his neck. He can't believe no one's dead.

" _So_  let him sleep on your fucking couch, Declan, it's not that complicated."

This, the familiar, brotherly rudeness, puts Declan on more even ground. He rolls his eyes at no one and asks, "Why isn't he talking to me himself?"

The phone makes a noise like Ronan just banged it against something. "Have you ever  _met_ Gansey? Because it would be  _impolite._ Maybe if he'd given you a decade's warning." 

"And he can't stay at a hotel because..." Declan uses his frustration to force the shovel deep into the earth, and finally hits something solid. He crouches down to brush dirt from the lid of a wooden box.

"It would be too obvious that he's avoiding them. I'm not sure how it matters because they know and he knows they know... Shit, Declan, do  _I_ look like a passive-aggressive WASP? He can't stay at a hotel, okay?"

"I'm not even at home."

"Yeah?" Ronan asks through a full mouth. Declan is beginning to think those years of being sent straight to voicemail were a blessing in disguise. "Where are you?"

"I'm at the library." Just then, as if Declan has ever seriously doubted that the world has it out for him, a bird caws overhead with such volume and force that Ronan can't help but hear it.

"Right," Ronan says dryly, though blessedly without tacking on a meltdown about Declan's compulsive dishonesty. "Look, you can tell him about all the fucking—the  _Congressional gossip_  he's missed. All the shit no one else will listen to. It'll be..." Declan has a vivid image of Ronan's lip curling. " _Fun_."

Declan turns this over in his mind. He does have a killer story about the Senate majority whip, a soccer ball, and a Yorkshire terrier that is surprisingly dependent on a working knowledge of filibuster reform. That positive almost makes up for the fact that he's known a yes was inevitable since he first picked up. Ronan doesn't ask for help, generally, and doesn't ask him for help, ever, and it would be very poor older brother form to shut him down. He just wants to draw it out a bit, reclaim a small part of his own dignity. Before he can figure out what to say, Ronan continues, surprisingly calmly, "Look, Opal's trying to eat the BMW; I have to go. I'm telling Gansey you said yes." The phone goes dead. Declan stands still for a moment, lets the familiar feeling of chaos wash over him, and then focuses on beating Gansey to his place.

He figures five minutes for Ronan to be sure he isn't going to object, an hour of Gansey protesting that he doesn't want to impose, and a twenty-six minute drive from the Gansey family home to his apartment, considering current weather and traffic conditions. He's just trying to shape his freshly-washed hair into something presentable when the intercom lets him know Gansey is at the door. He checks his watch. A little over an hour and a half.

Gansey no longer has the musculature of someone fresh off a victorious crew season, but he looks just as good as Declan remembers. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt with pink flowers, unremarkable khakis, and what are, quite possibly, the same long-suffering boat shoes he had on the last time Declan saw him. His arm twitches like he's thinking of going in for a hug, and then a handshake, and finally he gives an awkward little wave. "I'm sorry for the trouble," he says, hovering just beyond the threshold, a bookbag slung over one shoulder. "Ronan can be—persistent."

Declan doesn't say, "No shit," but only because he feels too off-balance to be snide. He goes instead with, "It's not a problem," and remembers without too much of a hitch to invite Gansey inside and show him to the guest room.

"I do appreciate it," Gansey says, clutching his bag under one arm as if Declan is plotting to kick him out the second he gets comfortable. "I like your..." His eyes dart from the eggshell walls to the furniture in shades of grey to the angular, jutting light fixtures. None of it has anything in common with what Declan's seen of his industrial chic decorating sensibilities. "Your apartment is very tastefully appointed."

Declan doesn't really think that's a comment worth replying to, but social norms demand that he pretend otherwise. It’s a relief, honestly, that Gansey seems to be as uncomfortable with this arrangement as he is. Whether it's the discomfort of being on the wrong side of a favor, or no longer having the shield of self-righteousness, he's enjoying seeing Gansey off-balance.

It went without saying, after Niall died, that the opportunity to address whatever tension existed between them had long passed. Ronan was having a terrible time of it, disappearing for hours on end and coming back bruised and wild-eyed. He was taking it hard, and Declan, apparently, wasn't. And it wasn't like they'd been  _dating_ or something. They'd kissed once; Gansey had been absorbed in talking about Glendower and part of Declan had wanted him to shut up already and part of Declan had wanted him to absolutely never stop looking at him all earnest and passionate, and the solution had seemed obvious. Then Matthew came crashing downstairs for a midnight snack and the mood was temporarily ruined, soon to be permanently ruined by Niall's head getting split open in their driveway.

They've never discussed it, or even awkwardly  _not_ discussed it. The next time they saw each other, Ronan was hyperventilating and covered in blood, and the time after that, Gansey seemed to have forgotten about it entirely. Declan considered saying something, but he'd never been the moony, yearning one before and had no real interest in starting while he was still trying to learn the ropes of a shoddily-constructed criminal enterprise.

Declan turns back toward the living room, conscious of the possibility that he's been staring too long. "I have plans tonight, but there's a spare key in a bowl on the mantle, and I doubt there's anything good in the fridge, but if you can put something together, you're welcome to it."

Gansey lets out a choked noise. "Do you have a date? I would be happy to clear out. I  _told_  Ronan not to ask you."

Declan considers lying. It's a more appealing option than admitting that his life is only 30% less consumed by rampant criminality than it used to be. But something about Gansey's face is so wide-open and earnest that his carefully-cultivated caution falls flat. "I have business with one of my father's contacts." He can't decide whether it's odd to continue referring to them that way, but he doesn't like to think of himself as involved in any of this in his own right.

The problem with being the responsible one, and also the least favorite, neither title having been particularly difficult to obtain, is that Gansey actually  _says_ , "Why are you still doing that? The Grey Man—" before grinding to a halt. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive of me."

"It's fine. The point is that you don't need to go anywhere. And I'll see you—" Declan tries to come up with a realistic timeframe to reduce the risk of Gansey calling the police, or worse, his gang of precocious magical teens. "A little after one, if you're still up."

"I'm coming with you," Gansey says, without even pausing to think it over. Declan can't decide if it's flattering or patronizing. "Do you have a first aid kit I can bring?"

Declan stares directly into the light overhead until his vision swims. The whole point of doing this on his own is not putting anyone else in danger, especially not someone with no direct connection and no combat abilities to speak of. But he knows his options are taking Gansey with him and being followed to a secret meeting by a broken-down muscle car in screaming orange. He says yes, and he tells Gansey that he has a kit in the car, leaving off the  _obviously,_ and they head out.

"So how have you been?" Declan asks after a solid fifteen minutes of driving in silence. He's always tried to vary the locations of his meetings, even though it would be painfully easy for someone to figure out where he lives. There's nothing wrong with at least shooting for circumspect. He regrets that now, faced with another half hour of discomfort. "How was your—you went on a road trip, right?" 

"It was incredible. I've been really happy," Gansey says with the wistful air of someone who no longer is. He clears his throat and continues before Declan can figure out what to say. "Does Ronan know you're still doing this?" he asks, reproachful like "this" is knocking over liquor stores rather than trying to make everyone's lives safer and easier.

"Of course not. And you aren't going to tell him." This is as firm as Declan has ever been with Gansey, and it still isn't hugely impressive. He takes a breath and tries again. "My father was the center of a criminal enterprise for over a decade. That kind of thing doesn't just go away, no matter the—lofty ambitions of certain ex-assassins. But I'm _handling_ it. Ronan is the last person I want anywhere near this. For  _very obvious reasons._ " Gansey shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Declan pushes his advantage, such as it is. "And you're staying in the car."

"That defeats the entire purpose!" Gansey protests, his voice drowning out the podcast Declan put on as soon as they got into the car, thinking it would minimize any awkward silences. "You shouldn't be in this alone; you never should have been."

Declan's hands twitch reflexively on the steering wheel. He and Ronan have only really discussed it once, in the competitive way of brothers close in age, so that he ended up detailing only his most daring escapes, and Ronan described a few of his dream items and guessed wildly about how much they'd be worth on the black market. It felt meaningful enough at the time, even as they talked around the meat of it, but no one has ever said to him exactly, explicitly, that the whole thing is unfair. It's very nearly unbearable. He clears his throat and tries to focus on the road. The speakers on the podcast have segued near seamlessly from describing their favorite brunches to explaining the etymology of the word "gerrymander." Declan flicks on his turn signal and waits until it's gone off again to say, "That's the way it is."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss with Gansey, and the ensuing infatuation, could be chalked up to a misjudgment, to wires crossed. Gansey was, after all, from an old money family of the sort Declan wished desperately to call his own, and Declan was a teenager going through a dry spell because his most recent ex was telling everyone that he was a cheater, which was, in the grand scheme of things, accurate, but only tangentially related to their break-up. Shit happened, and though neither of them actually resided at Aglionby at the time, both he and Gansey did attend boarding school. A little experimentation wasn’t unheard of.
> 
> Growing up surrounded by dreamers and dreams, Declan learned early that if he didn’t plan ahead, no one would. He is, as far as he knows, the only person in his family ever to set the clocks ahead for Daylight Savings Time. Being gay wasn’t going to help him become a U.S. senator or get his father to love him. So he didn’t think about it, not even to wonder what could have been if he were someone else. Even as the least favorite, Declan is and has always been so unavoidably Niall Lynch’s son that wishing otherwise seemed like blasphemy, as well as the sort of flight of fancy he’d never bother with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to internalized homophobia and all the daddy issues implied by a fic about Declan.

"I think we should talk about what happened between us that night at the Barns," Gansey says. If Declan hadn't received extensive on-the-job training in stunt driving, he would probably lose control of the car, in response to either Gansey's words or the matter-of-fact way he says them. Since Declan _did_ once drive his bleeding-out father to a "hospital" (warehouse) to see a "surgeon" (off-duty butcher) exactly three days after getting his learner's permit, the car holds steady.

He considers pretending not to know what Gansey's referring to, but he can tell already that he won’t be able to pull it off, and the only thing worse than the truth is an unconvincing lie. He asks, "You think we should talk about that _now?"_

"Yes. I think it's making us both tense." They might as well be talking about D.C.’s unseasonably heavy rainfall for all the tension in Gansey’s voice.

Obviously Declan wouldn’t _prefer_ an audience to what’s shaping up to be one of the top three most mortifying moments of his life, but it seems unfair that he has to experience something so uniquely ridiculous alone. He switches lanes less smoothly than he’d like, and the wooden box he liberated from a Maryland forest bumps against the side of the trunk. "And you think talking about it,  _now_ , will make us less tense?"

"I do. I've always believed that honesty is the most important thing, and we've done ourselves and each other a disservice by pretending it never happened. Besides, while I’ve never done—this before, I imagine it’s something you’d ideally be fully focused on. It would behoove us to eliminate distractions."

Declan says, " _Whatever_ ," and immediately regrets it for both its immaturity and the way it concedes defeat. Gansey is smiling; Declan can tell just from the sliver of his face that’s visible in the headlights of passing cars. Declan’s been laughed at plenty, but it feels different now, somehow. Charged, maybe, in the artificial intimacy of his compact car on the way to a meeting he wishes he hadn’t taken.

Gansey reaches out and adjusts the volume of the radio. If they were on a date, that would be a deal-breaker. He doesn’t speak, as if his true goal for the night was just to remind Declan that he was once nothing more than an infatuated adolescent. When he does continue, he finally sounds like they’re having the same miserable conversation. "It's just that my choices made sense to me at the time. It's just that Ronan was struggling so _much_." Declan nods. He wants to say that he was struggling too, that he needed someone just as badly, even though he knows it isn’t true, even though the part of him that isn’t perpetually relitigating childhood slights knows that if Gansey had chosen differently, it would have taken the shine off of him. "He needed my unconditional support. And I don't regret giving him that. But I've always felt—well, I'm not _proud_ of what that meant for you. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry you've had to go through so much alone. You didn't deserve that. And I wish things had been different."

Declan steels himself against the flowering warmth in his chest. "I do have friends, you know. It wasn't you or no one."

"Of course you do," Gansey says, the way someone might profess to believe a child who’s just claimed there’s a monster living under his bed. He must hear the condescension, because he pauses, then adds, "I mean that. Why _wouldn't_ you be socially successful? It's not that I'm being presumptuous about my importance to you personally. It's about accountability."

They kissed _once_. And _yeah_ , it was nice, and _yeah,_ it left Declan pointedly not-dealing with a sexuality crisis he would have expected himself to be too progressive for, but it was _one time_. It's kind of insulting, honestly, that Gansey assumes that night looms large in Declan's psyche even after all these years. It's mortifying that he's right.

The kiss with Gansey, and the ensuing infatuation, could be chalked up to a misjudgment, to wires crossed. Gansey was, after all, from an old money family of the sort Declan wished desperately to call his own, and Declan was a teenager going through a dry spell because his most recent ex was telling everyone that he was a cheater, which was, in the grand scheme of things, accurate, but only tangentially related to their break-up. Shit happened, and though neither of them actually resided at Aglionby at the time, both he and Gansey did attend boarding school. A little experimentation wasn’t unheard of.

Growing up surrounded by dreamers and dreams, Declan learned early that if he didn’t plan ahead, no one would. He is, as far as he knows, the only person in his family ever to set the clocks ahead for Daylight Savings Time. Being gay wasn’t going to help him become a U.S. senator or get his father to love him. So he didn’t think about it, not even to wonder what could have been if he were someone else. Even as the least favorite, Declan is and has always been so unavoidably Niall Lynch’s son that wishing otherwise seemed like blasphemy, as well as the sort of flight of fancy he’d never bother with.

And then Gansey hated him, anyway, so he didn’t have to worry about teasing out what feelings were platonic and what feelings were romantic and what feelings were craven opportunism. It all worked out. But everything came flooding back the second he saw Gansey in his doorway. It sucks that this is what he and Ronan have in common because it’s probably the one excuse that would have gotten him out of playing host: _I can’t have Gansey in my apartment because I’ve been deferring a big, stupid sexuality crisis centered around how soft his lips are._

"There's nothing to feel _accountable_ for," Declan says, carefully not looking over. "We were teenagers. Now we're adults. We don't need to rehash something that barely even rises to the level of adolescent drama."

"It occurs to me that if you truly didn't feel that I had anything to apologize for, the polite—not to mention expedient—thing would be to accept my apology and allow us both to move forward.” Gansey keeps his voice pointedly neutral. "That you haven't, I believe, sends a very particular message."

Declan's knuckles are white against the smooth leather of the wheel. "If that's how you look at it, then fine. Apology accepted. Can we please focus on the matter at hand?"

"I'm not looking for absolution. I want us to have an honest conversation about—obligation, and what turmoil brings out in us. The thing is, if we had to do it all over again, I don't think I would make different choices." Declan holds his breath so that he won't blurt out something rude. "What I mean is that it wasn't a situation with a lot of flexibility."

"Is this an apology or a justification?" The benefit of being the least favorite was that his father could barely be bothered to remember he was alive even when they were mid-law-breaking. It hadn't seemed like a benefit at the time, but with Gansey, eyes heavy on him, he can see the appeal of forgettability.

"So you _do_ feel that you're owed an apology!" Gansey exclaims, oddly triumphant.

Declan pulls onto the shoulder. The better part of power is punctuality, and they're a half hour early despite the detours intended to obscure their approach. The headlights click off, and once Gansey is nothing but a shadowy figure, Declan turns toward him and demands, "What do you want me to say? I'm glad you were there for my brother when I—" He drags a hand along his jaw. "When I couldn't be. Good. _Fine_. I don't see that we need to talk about it."

Gansey is silent for a long time. Declan bites down the childish urge to ask what he's thinking. "I suppose I don't want you to say anything in particular. Maybe _I_ just wanted to say—it wasn't an easy decision. Or that I've had my regrets."

"Oh, well as long as it was really about you the entire time. I’m glad I could make you feel better." Declan doesn’t need to be told that it wasn’t about him. It’s never been about him: his father didn’t love him least because of something he’d done _wrong_ , just because he wasn’t a living monument to Niall’s brilliance. His mother didn’t love him least because of some unforgivable flaw, just because she was created to nurture and he grew up too fast. Even Ronan hating him wasn’t _about_ him; it was about pain and loss and confusion. Fuck Gansey for reappearing in his life, stirring up old miseries, and acting like the whole thing is a kindness.

“That isn’t what I said,” Gansey says. “But I suppose being needlessly combative runs in the family, doesn’t it?”

Declan's had a lot of practice being alone. He was a lonely kid and he was a lonely teen and he's lonely now too. But he doesn't need apologies and he doesn't need explanations. He doesn't want to _talk_ about it. He doesn't come from that kind of family, and he knows Gansey doesn't either, so he can't imagine where this stab at emotional intelligence is coming from. “So what about you? Which of your weird friends dumped you and why?”

Gansey’s mouth shuts with an audible click of teeth. He turns to look out the window. He takes off his glasses, cleans them on the hem of his shirt, and replaces them. Declan almost, almost, almost feels bad. “It was mutual,” he says. Declan has dumped a lot of people who went on to claim the break-up was mutual, but Gansey’s whole thing is honesty, which is just what you do when you’re a bad liar, and he really seems to mean it. “I’ve spent so much time traveling because I never felt that I belonged anywhere. But when I moved to Henrietta, I found a home. It’s where I want to be, the place I want to return to. We just—need different things right now.”

Declan nods, wishing he hadn’t asked. He’s never felt that certainty about anything, or at least not anything positive. He’s known where he hasn’t wanted to be, how he hasn’t wanted to feel, but that isn’t the same. He clears his throat and forces himself to focus. "Do you know how to shoot a gun?" He endeavors to be pragmatic above all. He doesn't want Gansey there, but since Gansey rather unavoidably _is_ , he ought to at least do something useful.

"No!" Gansey says, like Declan just asked him if he'd like to commit some light arson on the way.

"Really? No hunting photo ops with Mom to appeal to the base?" Gansey thinks it’s crass to acknowledge political difference outside of the most removed intellectual conversations, and he winces just like he’s supposed to. Declan pulls his gun from beneath his seat and nods to the space behind Gansey's crossed ankles."You shouldn't need it. But if anything goes wrong—just try to look convincing, all right?"

  


The guy Declan's supposed to be meeting is actually two guys, which, to be fair, might be exactly what they're thinking, Gansey's drawn but determined face visible through the windshield. Declan doubts, somehow, that this deviation is as innocent as his own, but he makes himself hold steady. He isn't totally sure what he's about to hand over; Niall made so many promises to so many people that Declan is still untangling his extralegal obligations even now. It's a pyramid roughly the size of an anemic cat, and it grumbled ominously when he dropped it in his rush to get back to his apartment. He doesn't feel good about this, exactly, but he reached the upper limit of his capacity for personal responsibility quite a while back. If he's selling a geometrically-pleasing nuclear bomb to a foreign power, so be it.

These guys don't look like a foreign power, though. They don't look like any kind of power. Declan is almost entirely sure he recognizes one of them from a gen-ed he took as a freshman. The kid sat at the very back and never paid attention except that once a week he would raise his hand—participation grade—and say something completely inane. It's ridiculous that Declan didn't recognize his dopey voice on the phone; he wouldn't have taken the meeting.

He's just barely convinced himself that he's overthinking it when the guy opens his mouth and says, "Declan. Lynch." As if people ordinarily split names into two totally separate sentences. And then it very obviously is Ethan, in the stupid, insufferable flesh. "Who's your friend, bro?" Declan sighs. His arms are sore from having spent his afternoon in the middle of the woods, which feels even less worthwhile than it did before. Right after Niall died, a fair number of his contacts balked at taking meetings with Declan, and he spent months proving that he ought to be taken seriously in his own right. It seems now he's been sent back to the kiddy table.

"I'd say you answered your own question there. He's a friend. Nothing to do with this."

"Then why's he here? Sort of— _unprofessional_ , don't you think?" Ethan pronounces unprofessional like it has at least six syllables.

"Maybe. Good thing we're meeting at an abandoned truck stop instead of a boardroom or a five-star restaurant.” Declan runs a hand through his barely-styled hair. “Look, do you have the money? Because I can find another buyer."

"Oh, I don't think so. Word is you want out."

Something in Declan's back twinges. "Is that the word? God, who knew criminals could be so _perceptive_. I never wanted 'in' in the first place. But as I am pretty clearly involved, why don't you give me the money we agreed on?"

Ethan cocks his head. "You're not all-in, maybe you get soft. Lose your edge."

Gansey appears at Declan's shoulder. "I think that's redundant, don't you?" No one says anything. Declan wants to throttle him. "I mean, soften, lose your edge? They communicate the same thing. I'm just saying, it doesn't really add anything."

Declan pulls Gansey back a few steps and whispers, "I explicitly told you to stay in the car."

"Well, the muscle's been trying to flank you." Gansey nods toward Ethan's partner, who was clear on the other side of the parking lot the last time Declan looked at him, and is now only a few yards away.

"I _knew_ that," Declan lies. "This isn't my first time selling a mysterious weapon on the side of the road." Gansey smiles at him obligingly, and he very nearly smiles back, heedless of the situation they’re in.

So maybe he's getting soft after all.

Declan's spare gun is visible in Gansey's waistband, but it doesn't make him look tough, or dangerous, or like he belongs there. He looks scared. He looks like someone who's died twice and knows exactly how much it hurts. Yet he's standing right next to Declan even though they haven't seen each other since the last time Declan was in Henrietta, and that was only in passing. Ronan asked him if he wanted anything from the Barns, so he went and pretended to dither over some old picture books even though _he_ 'd never actually stopped going to the Barns in the first place, and was also completely and totally sure he didn't want anything to remind him of how even the best times of his life had been spent isolated and unhappy. Ronan had photo albums out on the dining room table, and he didn't say anything, but it was clear that Declan was supposed to look at the strategically flipped open pages, so he did, and his heart hurt a little, and then he drove back to D.C. alone.

He feels guilty for not trying harder to stop Gansey from coming. He's still almost entirely certain it wouldn't have accomplished anything, but it would have been the right thing to do, as the one who understood the severity of what they were walking into. The worst part is that this is posturing on both sides, but a smug asshole with something to prove can be more dangerous than a genuinely skilled operator. Declan would know.

Declan has never been good at thinking on his feet, and he's almost never felt worse off for it. Niall trusted his gut, and look where that got them. They would be fine if Declan had used the drive over to strategize, but he was mostly thinking about how Gansey made his entire car smell like fabric softener. So he pretty much deserves to die for being an idiot, but he doesn't want to take anyone down with him.

"Here's what I need you to do,” Declan says, working to keep his voice steady. “Go back to the car. Don't run. Don't back away. Just turn and walk. Can you do that?"

Gansey says, "But—"

"Do you trust me?" Declan asks, which is the sort of ballsy, potentially self-defeating move he wouldn't try if the big one weren't eying Gansey malevolently. In a chain made up exclusively of weak links, Gansey is very obviously the place to apply pressure.

Gansey just nods, his eyes wide and guileless. "I do trust you," he says, like it costs him nothing, like it's something less than everything. "But I'm not going anywhere."

Declan bites down a groan. It means a lot to him that Gansey wants to stick around, but it's going to be hard to appreciate the novelty of someone wanting to protect him when they're both dead.

Declan has always thought of his nerve as one of his better qualities. He didn’t lose focus when he was locked in a car trunk and forced to listen to his father being beaten, or when a hitman kicked down his dorm room door. If Gansey weren’t next to him, this would be just like either of those situations: an ugly position, one he doesn’t want to be in, but familiar and almost certainly livable. Gansey is a wild card, untrained and unpredictable.

Declan takes a breath and tries to channel every stupid action movie he’s ever half-watched, every ounce of menacing false charm that is his birthright. “I’m going to be honest with you. Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you how rare that is. I really don’t care about this deal one way or another. It’s more trouble than it’s worth, cleaning the little bit of money I’m supposed to getting from you, and I have plans for the night that don’t involve burying a body. I could give this to you, and it wouldn’t make much of a difference to me.” He sucks his teeth and pretends to think it over. “But on the other hand, it’s the _principle_ of the thing. And that’s a bad reason to kill someone, maybe, but it isn’t the _worst_.”

Ethan watches him, apparently unmoved. “That was real good. Real convincing. But if you want someone to think you’re going to shoot them, you should probably pull your gun.”

“Not a bad point.” Declan still doesn’t draw. The second he does, Ethan and the muscle will as well, and then they’ll be even more obviously outmatched than they are right now. “And since I haven’t, you could assume I’m bluffing. Or you could remember that I’ve been in this business since I was fourteen, and realize that I must have pretty good instincts.” Ethan doesn’t retreat, but he doesn’t advance, either, which is something. Declan decides to push his luck. "You don't seriously think my father left me totally unprotected. There was no limit to what he could create, and you think it's an even playing field? Shit, you think we're _on_ the same playing field? Yeah, someone got the drop on him. He got cocky and the guy got lucky. Do you think you will too?"

Ethan still doesn’t make a move, which is a far cry from his earlier cockiness; Declan decides to take it as a good sign. “We’re going. We’re taking whatever this is, and you can explain to your boss how you managed to screw up a deal he closed nearly half a decade ago. Because I’m actually a really nice guy, I won’t also take your money as an appearance fee. Sound good?” He nods to Gansey, who finally, blessedly takes a step toward the car.

 

Once they’re far enough away for Declan to be sure Ethan isn’t going to change his mind and try a violent renegotiation, he pulls over. He means to apologize for dragging Gansey into a situation he was ill-equipped for, but he doesn’t get the words out. Gansey's eyes are wild and alive. He looks for the first time like someone resurrected by a magical forest and the will of a bunch of teenagers. He sounds like himself, though, when he says, "I'm sorry if this is insensitive, you having been conscripted into it and all, but that was _exhilarating_."

Making out on the side of the road after having committed an unspecified felony is the exact intersection of seedy and adolescent at which Declan's life appears to have stagnated, but it’s hard to be bothered with Gansey’s lips on his. He should pull back and say something sarcastic to regain the upper hand. Instead, he leans in and tries not to wonder how this is going to end.

**Author's Note:**

> [hit me up on tumblr!](https://declanapologist.tumblr.com/tagged/charisma%20blackhole)


End file.
